Assassin's Creed: Edge of  Darkness
by Alex von Dualgunner
Summary: Derek Dawson, a modern-day Assassin, finds himself caught in a desperate struggle begun by his Ancestors. The race begins as Derek must face the sins of his father, and defend the Assassin Order. Is blood truly thicker than water? He must decide.
1. Killer in the Square

Assassin's Creed Fanfic

A mid-day sun shone down upon the crowded streets of New York, which filled his eyes and ears. The large sidewalks contained many people, all going about their business. One man need not ask another where he is going, what he is doing. He was among these people; among his shroud. A young man, dressed in a white-grey hoodie and jeans didn't stand out from the crowd; exactly what he wanted. The hood covered his hair and face, concealing his identity, for when the time came to run. So _they_ wouldn't find him, especially after he found _them._ As he lightly pushed his way through the crowd, he scanned what everyone around him looked like; he looked for any peculiarities in behaviour, in anyone at all, for his target. A Templar Elite, a warrior of mass power, had been spotted in the area, and he was deployed to…erase him.

The people disguised his visage; their sound disguised his footsteps: a perfectly camouflaged tiger in waiting; a wolf in sheep's clothing, aiming not for a sheep, but for the shepherd, instead. The man took a breath, his target drew near; his gut told him. A hidden blade, a small blade attached to a solid metal bracer, was primed and ready to draw the blood of his prey.

To the man's shock and dismay, his target now lay out of his reach. One man who had passed by was carrying a briefcase with Abstergo's insignia on it. The crowd died out, and quickly. Not wanting to lose them as cover, the man went with, his enemy now in plain sight. The man continued walking out into Times Square, and towards a bench. In addition to Abstergo, a powerful Drug Company, the Templar Order had many outlets in the Mafia. They had men, feared men, powerful men, in every outlet of power they could find, so as to finish their enemies. To finish the Assassins, the young man's reason for life, and end their resistance to the Templar's reign of terror.

Two men approached the Templar, who stood. More of his features could now be made out by his Assassin; a rough chin, sunglasses, a black suit…too easy to be seen walking by a person like that. At least, too easy if the young Assassin stopped long enough to kill him. This would be difficult.

The Assassin slipped out of the crowd, and into an alleyway. People gave him odd looks, but kept walking. This _was_ New York, after all, and the Assassin had to rely on them forgetting as soon as they took their eyes off of him.

Once no one else was watching, the Assassin ran towards the ladder, gaining momentum. He climbed the cold, metallic ladder with haste; every moment his prey was out of sight was a moment that he could escape, and he would have to find him again. He made his way to the top of the roof, and began running in the direction of Times Square, the wind almost blowing his hood off.

Making it to the edge of the building, the Assassin looked out onto Times Square. He smirked; the man now consorting with the others in black suits. Taking out a camera, he zoomed in to try to see the opened briefcase that the three men were crowding around. He tried in vain, however, and instead took photos of the people he was dealing with. Possibly other Templars; they were everywhere in New York; from the slums to the Government.

One of them was wearing a baseball cap, and dressed in a similar black suit. Quite possibly trying to blend in by being in as much contrast as possible with the crowd, he wore sunglasses which covered his eyes, but his skin was still very much visible. The other had the simple "men in black" themed attire, his head shaved bald, and his sunglasses held securely by the wrinkles around his eyes.

The techs back at headquarters would find these photos rather interesting, but the Assassin could not return until he had spilt the blood of Neil D'Ali. Cracking his neck, the Assassin looked around for anything to distract everyone, even the crowd he held in such high regard to the success of his mission. Seeing a neon sign, he grinned mischievously. Perfect.

Grabbing a knife from his belt, hidden by his hoodie, he aimed for the neon sign, which advertised beer with bright colors of blue and white, and the beer itself being a bright shade of brown. He took aim, closing an eye and imagining crosshairs in his vision; this always helped him hit his targets just that little bit better that made the mission successful. He thrust the knife at high speed into the neon sign, penetrating it, and causing a spark shower. The confusion had already started as the Assassin descended the side of the building quickly, grabbing various railings and faults in the wall, attempting to not draw attention. He landed on the ground, rolling to break his landing. He made his way back into the crowd, and started darting through the confused masses as the police arrived.

The Assassin, while walking quickly through the crowd, spotted an armed pedestrian. He quickly thought through his plan; was the neon sign enough of a distraction? Changing direction, the Assassin walked by the pedestrian, and pickpocketed his gun after shoving into him.

"Hey, buddy! Whaddaya think yer doin'?" asked the pedestrian, putting his fists up in defense, obviously too drunk to reach for his gun, of which was no longer there anyway. The Assassin hid the pistol in his pocket, and dodged a poorly aimed punch, grabbing the fist and elbowing him in the gut. Falling to his knees, the man begged for forgiveness, stood and limped away.

The Assassin now had a pistol, but it was a one-time use deal, it would shatter his cover. The pistol clutched tightly in his hand, he had to make the chaos work for him. Aiming above someone's shoulder, he fired, placing the gun in their pocket and backing away with the crowd quickly, shoving behind a few others so he wouldn't be detected immediately.

"What the hell was that?" the person cried, feeling the gun fall out of his pocket. The police surrounded him, and handcuffed him for disturbing the peace. In the added commotion, Neil obviously started to suspect an Assassin somewhere nearby. He motioned for his guards to be on the lookout. This made the Assassin's job a little harder, but after the assassination has been fulfilled, all he needed to do was escape. The guards pulled out pistols, and had them aimed at the crowd; the difficulty was finding a blind spot.

Making his way silently through the crowd, the Assassin soon was within striking distance. The bodyguards had separated, both beating harmless civilians, whom they thought was him. His chance was now; the blind spot had been virtually anywhere, the target holding a pistol out with both hands, ready to fire at anything. He breathed deeply, readying his hidden blade. Three…two…one…

The Assassin leaped, the crowd noticing nothing yet. Neil had just glanced when he screamed in fear, Death cloaked in white on his doorstep. He brought his weight down on the poor, lousily defended Templar, who fired three shots in surprise, wounding some of the crowd, and alerting the Templar guards. He smirked as his blade pierced Neil's throat, giving them just enough time for him to speak his final words of remorse, as was Assassin custom. He pulled the blade out, ready to hear what the Templar had to say.

"Pray to whatever God you have," the Assassin said, smugly.

"You…Assassins…will never…prevent…" Neil said, beginning to hyperventilate. "You won't stop the change…that this world must go through…"

"_Must_ go through?" the Assassin said, although he already guessed the Templar's answer.

"Yes…must…the people _need_ a voice of control…they want it, and we will give it to them…" Neil gasped, now coughing. He was wasting his breath at an incredible rate. He would be dead soon.

"Rest in peace, friend," the Assassin said, taking a picture of the dead man. He stood up, watching the blood pour out and kill him, "and may you find that order you sought so much in Heaven." He stood, looking around. The people all froze while he did that; simply amazing. The police made their move now, as well as the other Templars. Time to run, thought the Assassin, ducking under an attack from his right, then vaulting over the same, confused foe.

He began running, as fast as he possibly could. Gunshots could be heard, but the Assassin kept running. Not a single person saw his face, one Creed followed. No innocents died. Another Creed followed, albeit the some people were injured. And finally, the Assassin Order had been preserved; all three Creeds had been followed almost perfectly. Now, the Assassin need only escape, an easier task than one might think.

The police now followed via vehicles. A megaphone using officer called out "Halt, in the name of the law!" Fool. He had no _clue_, not even a slight thought, that what the Assassin had just done was _to_ uphold the law, and preserve justice in a justiceless world.

The Assassin climbed over a wall, using his momentum to keep him going at a constant speed. He now climbed a ladder behind the wall, the police firing warning shots. He sighed, either he would die or wouldn't…he preferred wouldn't, but even if he did, the job was done.

Climbing to the roof of the building, he thought the police would be calling in a helicopter shortly. He stopped, and took a breath. With all his training, he hadn't even lost his breath. Pulling out his cellphone, he called back to headquarters, while walking inside the building from the roof outlet.

It rang for a few moments, then the familiar voice of Anna replied. "Derek!"

"Relax, I just need a pick up. The coordinates are 001 and 000." Derek replied, calmly.

"Right. Not very far from the target's coordinates?" she asked, peppiness in her voice.

"Shut up, the job is done." Derek replied, holding the cellphone between his shoulder and his chin, in an awkward attempt to change out of his Assassin outfit. "Hangon a sec…" he said, putting the cellphone down and removing his jacket. He would wear it as a belt, the pants under his jeans were just comfortable, casual ones. His blonde hair and his blue eyes matched perfectly with his tie-dye shirt in proclaiming, "Dude, what just happened?" to the world.

Quickly making his way to the lobby of the building, (which turned out to be a hotel) Derek saw the car waiting for him; a silver Mustang with a brunette-haired woman wearing sunglasses riding front seat. Sighing, he left the building and stepped into the car.

"Long day?" Anna asked, smirking.

"Wouldn't be as long if the Templars weren't wising up to us. There were three Templar Elites today; I could only erase one, but I have photos of the other two." Derek explained.

"Three? They really _are_ getting better at this." Anna remarked, smiling.

"Too bad we can't crank out Assassins as quickly as they can Templars; we'll never win at this rate." Derek sighed.

"Don't forget Desmond Miles." Anna said, focusing on the road.

"What good is _he_ gonna do us? Stupid idiot fingerprinted himself...and was caught by those bastards at Abstergo." Derek said.

"We are preparing to free him, we just need time."

"_Time_ is something we are coming close to no longer having. At least Lucy is there." Derek said. "I just hope Desmond can live up to Altair's name."

"All we can do is all we _have_ been doing, and not giving up. Don't worry; we'll stop them." Anna said, placing her arm on Derek's. "Trust me."

"Whatever." Derek replied emotionlessly. The car drove along the streets; they had escaped pursuit.

The car stopped in front of an old warehouse, both Derek and Anna stepped out. Derek opened the door, walking in before Anna, who stood there in shock. Something was bugging Derek today, she could tell. Ignoring those thoughts, she opened the door again and walked in, following Derek from a distance. After going up a flight of stairs, Derek looked around at the hallways they had stepped in. Dull, colorless, and bleak. Just like his life was becoming.

Opening the door into the main room of the headquarters, Derek looked around at the other two there: Shaun Hastings and Rebecca Crane. Shaun was working with computers, like he always had, said he was compiling some form of database or another. Rebecca working on a chair, she called it the "Animus 2.0", and was a desperate attempt to combat Abstergo's model, which was probably better. Better funded, too.

Shaun spun in his chair to see the sight of Derek and Anna there, and his face showed surprise. Surprise…then anger. "Derek, what the hell did you do?"

"Erased a Templar, just as ordered." Derek replied, throwing his backpack onto the bed, and flopping down onto it.

"Erased a Templar, erased a Templar…you don't seem to get it, do you? You lit up Times Square with talk of conspiracy!" Shaun shouted, turning on the TV. He put in a videotape, which showed the whole event, from the neon sign's spark shower, down to the assassination of Neil. "Damn it, Derek, you have to be more careful!"

"It would have been worse had I not done what I did. Besides, it can easily be shrugged off as simple murder." He replied, closing his eyes and sighing. "Always paying attention to detail…"

"_Detail_, Derek, is the difference between success and failure! Innocents were harmed, thanks to all that stray gunfire!" Shaun yelled again, pointing out that specific part in the tape. "Not only that, but because of all your distractions, you are making people think this whole thing was planned!"

"It was planned."

"But they aren't supposed to know that, Derek! Now on the news they are probably talking about how some secret group banded together to kill Neil D'Ali!"

By now, Anna and Rebecca had left the room. Derek and Shaun often had shouting matches, but Anna knew today was different. Someone in there could easily get hurt, and both Rebecca and Anna knew who was a better –trained fighter.

"Listen, _computer boy_, while you are here, crunching numbers or something, the _real_ Assassins are out _there_, fighting and _dying_, every single day, to save this society from falling into the hands of the Templars!" Derek shouted. Shaun backed off a bit, he gulped, and took a breath; there was no real come back to that. None that mattered, anyway.

"Listen, Derek. Just _try_ to follow the tenants for once." Shaun said, letting his shoulders relax. "I don't know what the higher-ups are going to think about this."

"That reminds me." Derek said, sitting down on the bed, "In that camera are some snapshots of the other Templars there that I couldn't erase."

"Really? How many were there?" Shaun asked, now more interested in his computer. Anna and Rebecca had returned to the room, knowing that the bulk of the argument was over, thankfully, thought Anna, more quickly than most of their arguments.

"Three were out in the open, possibly two more within the police force." Derek replied, images of his fleeing flashing through his mind. He remembered now what he hadn't noticed while running: the police flashed badges, sure, but they had different symbols on them. Not the NYPD insignia that cops usually have.

"So, out of five, you killed one, and got pictures of three." he responded, simplifying the story to the important details.

"Correct." Shaun made a move to mock Derek's performance, but decided against it. Today wasn't the day to make him mad.

"Hey, Derek?" Rebecca asked, in response he opened one eye halfway, looking in her direction. "Could you help me with something really quick?"

"Depends." Derek replied coldly.

"It has to do with making Assassins."

"I have no interest in the makings of others." He said, mistaking what she meant.

"Not like that!" Rebecca said, smiling. "Geeze, you need to lighten up."

"Hard to do when there is a war going on, and I am chastised for saving the day." He said, still emotionless, but motioning slightly to Shaun.

"I need help testing the Animus. You won't have to do anything; you'll just be laying in this chair, rather than in the bed." Derek sat up with a groan. If it helped Assassins get trained faster, it could help his skills slightly. Walking over to where Rebecca and Anna, and sat in the red chair. Putting an arm on each silver arm of the chair, he sighed.

"Get this over with." He muttered, and Rebecca pulled out a needle. Anna held Derek's arm in place, and Rebecca jammed the needle into Derek's arm, causing him to jerk in pain. Grimacing, the world slowly melted around him. "What's going…" he muttered, falling into a deep sleep.


	2. Heritage of Blood

Derek awoke in a weird place, a world with white everywhere. Swearing, Derek looked around. Was he dead? Heaven sure was a weird place. It certainly wasn't Hell; at least, if Hell really was fire and brimstone. With a flash, Derek's skin became to shatter, revealing underneath it, numbers and data. That data started leaving his body, as he watched in horror. What was going on? The data started speeding, a pretty light show, but Derek had no desire to watch it.

The data sped to a stop around him, and began to slam back into what Derek imagined his body to be: a wire frame with nothing attached. The data, the numbers, all of it returned to him hastily. Except his form was different: something was going on.

The world around him began to transform again, the various whites changing colors and taking shape. What the hell had the Animus done to him? While the world around him took shape, he looked at himself in a forming mirror. He was wearing a brown jacket, jeans, and a plain grey shirt. His hair was a matted blonde, his eyes an odd shade of brown. Feeling over his face, the whiskers he had disoriented him.

He touched where his eyes were on the mirror, as if to make sure the mirror was not lying to him. He felt the familiar weight of the Hidden Blade, except for whatever reason there was a Hidden Blade on both arms. Interested, he played with the weapons for a few moments. A ladder steadily entered whatever existence this was beside him, the chrome masked by the rust.

The trickle of water could now be heard, as well as the voices of people. Footsteps could be heard from behind, and Derek spun to face the men, be they friend or foe, he had to assume the worst. The men wore hoods, but had rifles, all pointed at him.

"Frederick Dawson…" one muttered, holding the rifle up, taking aim. "You picked the wrong side of this war."

"The wrong side?" Derek asked, without meaning to. He had lost control of his body; something else was going on. He didn't like it at all. As desperately as he wanted to leap out, killing the men, who obviously were Templars, but his body would not move. Not as he wanted it to. "I think the people have their own rights, you don't need to steal them from them."

"What do they do with these 'rights', Assassin?" the man asked, readying to fire. This was probably the Templar version of the Assassin's "Laying To Rest", as Derek called it. "They cause war, they fight. They let power go to the ones who would harm them, and they rely on predators to protect them."

"Yes, I will agree, they are quite foolish. But that is their choice." Derek replied. Another thing, it wasn't his voice he spoke with; the voice was deeper, and had a certain authority. "Kill me or no, you won't discover the Assassins via me. I shall not return until all who know my face are dead." Derek drew his hidden blade, and began walking towards the Templars.

"Then you die, Assassin." The man said, pulling the trigger. A bullet fired off, but Derek moved his foot out of the way, avoiding the bullet. He continued walking. Another shot, meant for the heart, was avoided simply by moving his left shoulder so it was behind his right, then returning to walking normally. The other Templars began firing, Derek marvelously dodging each and every bullet, whether it be one by one, or multiple bullets at a time.

He was finally upon his target, which dropped his gun to draw a knife. He valiantly attempted to stab Derek between the shoulder and the neck, but the attack was blocked when Derek grabbed the bottom of the fist, and shoved the hidden blade through the man's heart. Blood poured out of the man, the other Templars reloading their weapons. Stepping on the rifle on the ground at an angle which launched the rifle in the air, Derek let go of the dead Templar and grabbed the rifle, taking aim and firing at the Templar on his left.

The bullet hit between his eyes, and he dropped dead instantly. The other Templar finished reloading, but Derek thrust the rifle at him, causing him to flinch. Due to the reaction, Derek had sped towards the last Templar, stabbing him through the throat with the other hidden blade. The three were already dead.

Derek found the freedom of movement once more, looking at the dead bodies. How did he do that? Skills like those were well beyond Derek's level. Turning around, Derek ascended the rusted ladder, making his way quickly to the top of the building. He saw the moon, high in the midnight sky, casting light down at him. The sound of cars filled his ears.

Looking down upon the streets, Derek sat down, and furiously wiped the blood off of his coat. He needed to get home, he needed to yell at Rebecca for whatever she just did to him. Knock him out, dress him up, eye contacts, leaving him in the middle of what looked like a slum somewhere in New York…the list just added up. Taking another step, he realized something: they called him "Frederick Dawson".

Something was definitely wrong. This world seemed…wrong, somehow. Not real. Running as fast as he could, Derek bounded over the gap between two buildings, landing into a somersault, which he rolled back into a standing position, and began running over a clothesline between two other buildings. Common Assassin skills: they all had to be proficient in the art of Parkour, or freerunning.

Making his way across quite a few rooftops, Derek stopped, and breathed. He was going nowhere, and fast. Then the data around him fragmented again, and some force pulled Derek backward, in the opposite direction. A threatening force; something was working against him with great force. Turning, he ran with the energy, away from the area that was killing him.

He stopped, looking down at the street, where a woman was alone. Derek lost control of his body once more, and descended to street level, landing next to the woman. She looked at Derek, and started crying.

"What's wrong?" Derek asked, no control over any of his body once more. It felt like he was watching a movie, or rather, a memory.

"They…they took him…" the woman muttered, embracing Derek. "The Assassins…said…that he wouldn't be known as you were."

"So…they deemed me useless and stole my son?" Derek said, and chuckled. The humor in that statement was lost to him, who wished he could console the woman, or at least run.

"Will…will we ever see him again?" she asked, crying.

"Yes. I swear on my life, dear." Derek muttered, before the woman shattered into data. He was freed of whatever was controlling his body. The world around him crumbled into numbers, and data, and that bleak color of white which had control upon his awakening. An omniscient voice spoke to Derek: one that sounded like Rebecca.

"Derek, are you okay?" it asked, he looked to the sky to try and find her, but had no luck.

"I'm fine. What the hell was that?" Derek demanded, remembering his anger.

"You do know what the Animus is meant to do, right?" Rebecca asked, still an omniscient voice.

"Clone things, right?" Derek guessed, folding his arms, anger pulsing through his arms.

"No, silly. It takes you through your genetic memories." Rebecca laughed. Derek raised an eyebrow; genetic memories?

"I'll take your delayed response as confusion. Genetic memories are the memories of your ancestors: the things that make _you_ tick."

"My ancestor's memories?" Derek asked, looking at his arm, the brown jacket. "Then this is—"

"Frederick Dawson, died 2010." Rebecca replied. "Since he lost you in the year 2000, he had been fighting for his right to return to the order. He died in a failed mission to kill the Templar in charge of Abstergo."

"Why was I never told of my father? Or my surname, maybe?" Derek exclaimed, punching the air. "Damn it all…" he fell to his knees, looking at his arms: the only visage of his father he was capable of seeing.

"I'm sorry Derek…had you known…"

"It would have affected my mission proficiency. Of course; I'm _so_ sorry." Derek said, sarcastically. "Any other relatives you aren't telling me of?"

"None as far as I know, that woman was never shown in any records other than your own memory." Rebecca replied.

"Fine, I'll find out on my own. Return me to the memory." Derek ordered, and prepared to return to his father's memories.

"Sorry, Derek," Rebecca replied, as even the data fell apart, "if you are in too long, there are some disastrous 'side effects'."

"Like what?"

"Multiple personalities: you are living your father's life. You would soon be accessing his memories mentally, without the Animus, and that would drive you mad. Derek would become Frederick, with no vice versa." Rebecca explained. "Now, this should take a second…"

Everything went black, and Derek woke up in the red chair, the needle being pulled out of his arm, and a bandage being applied to his arm. "Derek! You're okay!" Anna said, a huge smile on her face, which she quickly ridded herself of, and blushed.

"Of course I'm okay, a memory won't kill me." Derek said, brushing her off. "When can I go back in?" he asked, looking at Rebecca.

"In a few days. I need to process the data, and make sure there are no side effects already on you." She replied. "Until then, Shaun has your next two contracts lined up for you."

"Right." Derek said, already thinking up the images of his new targets: the two Templars who survived in Times Square.


	3. Day One, Death One

Derek walked over to Shaun, who already had the information on the selected Templars neatly organized in a manila envelope. "Good luck, Derek. Use some common sense this time." He said, returning to his other activities. Grabbing the envelope, Derek followed Anna outside the hideout.

"So, two targets this time?" Anna asked, smiling. "Sounds exciting."

"Exciting? Is that what you call it?" Derek asked, pulling the information of the first target out of the envelope. "Look, it'll be just like we were doing two one-target missions, nothing special." He read over his target's base information; more than usual. The Templars usually did a better job hiding their member's from the Assassin's watchful eyes.

5'8", Caucasian, blue eyes, no hair, lived somewhere in Greenwich, New York. Perfect: Derek usually found that last bit of information for himself, but it seemed that Shaun decided to give a little extra help out of pity because there were two targets today. The target's name was Garret Jerome, and he was Abstergo's secondary contact with the New York Mafia, as such, he could be an interesting foe. He knew the inner workings of an Assassin's mind, or should at least have a small grasp, as the Mafia did similar work, the overall goal of the murder being the only difference.

In fact, the Mafia has had a few scrapes with the Assassin Order in the past, but has backed off unless Abstergo and money were involved. Maybe Garret could offer some information as to what Abstergo was planning with Desmond…or even better, offer some information of Frederick. Based on his perception of him the Animus memory, Derek guessed that Frederick would have been involved with them, even if only slightly.

"Does it say where in Greenwich?" Anna asked, seeing Derek's track of mind falter.

"How did you even know…?" Derek started to ask, he had said nothing of the contents of the envelope, and Anna was watching the road…or was she? Cutting the idea loose, he returned to the topic. "It doesn't give specific coordinates, but if we wander Greenwich a bit, we might see him."

"Not very time efficient." Anna remarked, sighing. "But I guess it's all we can do for now." Looking out of the mustang's window, Derek spied on the people of the streets. It would actually be more suspicious were he not to be searching for something to catch his interest. He looked up, and his eyes widened. As though he had seen a ghost, there he was: Garret in the flesh.

"That was anticlimactic…" Derek muttered. "I already found the target."

"You're kidding me? Already?" Anna asked, looking at Derek from out of her sunglasses.

"Drive over the next corner and let me out." Derek commanded, and Anna obeyed. Once on the other side of the building, safe out of Garret. Shifting his hood slightly, he sighed. He might as well have _some_ fun with this. He looked at his surroundings: a bus stop, with three other people, a crowd of four people waiting at the red light for traffic to subside, and two more people, assumedly a couple, sitting on a bench close to the building. Nine other people in total: eleven people, counting him and his prey.

A plan formulated in his mind, and he readied to round the corner…

Garret had just gotten out of his day job, and was eager to get home. He had no wife or children, but he had a fiancée waiting there. All this business with the assassination of Neil D'Ali had set Abstergo aflame with rumors of the great Assassins of old returning to life because of their experiments revolving primarily around Subjects 16 and 17. While 17 wasn't spoken of much, Garret had heard about his death due to overexposure to the Animus. He went mad, and killed himself, leaving quite the bloody mess in his quarters.

17, of course, was probably the reason for D'Ali's murder. Desmond Miles, their latest hope of finding The Vault and acquiring a Piece of Eden. That was all he was ever told. The Assassin that day, though…something was different about the way he murdered: it seemed more personal, rather than the emotionless killer he had defended himself from once before. Crazy bastard had learned too much anyway, Garret was just lucky that Assassin wasn't after him. Brilliant man, setting a hundred and one things in motion prior to the murder; too much happening to make D'Ali seem like anything more than a casualty.

Nonetheless, the higher-ups had reprimanded him, and the other agent there, Jonah Harrison. He himself became the primary contact with the Geroni family, who supplied them with half of their stock for half of Abstergo's yearly income. Probably the best decision that family had made financially, but now they were in danger of the Assassins. Who knew what limits they would go to, to throw the world into panic.

That was something Garret never got about the Assassins: why the rejected change. Why did they hate the Templars, for doing in a more efficient way, the same thing the Assassins were doing through murder? It never made sense, never added up.

It was in the middle of these thoughts that Garret saw something out of the corner of his eye. A man in a grey hood, his eyes and facial features hidden. Nevertheless, Garret recognized him. The Assassin who killed D'Ali. The Assassin drew a blade, and disappeared around the corner. Whatever that rat was planning, Garret wasn't about to let him succeed. Rounding the corner in a few seconds, the Assassin had disappeared. Probably still there: hiding.

Garret drew his gun, charcoal-black with six rounds, and walked slowly into the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder a few times. Nice going, Garret, you walked right into the bastard's trap, he thought to himself.

"Hello…" a voice from behind startled Garret, and he spun to look around. Ten people were around, and a group of three were waiting for the stoplight. Some at a bus station, and a couple making out. Nothing out of the ordinary…then again, that is what Assassins made you think: nothing is odd. Everything is in the clear, and just when you think they are gone, they come out of thin air and kill you. It was only an itchy trigger finger that saved him last time, he prayed to God it would save him this time.

"You wanna know the difference between you and me?" the voice asked again, and Garret spun, his gun outstretched.

"Where are you?" he shouted, catching the attention of the crowd. "L-leave me alone!"

"Here you are, dressed like the Secret Service. Everyone here knows you are here, everyone turns a wary eye…" the voice muttered again Garret spinning, desperately trying not to pull the trigger. "…me? I look like the average Joe…no one can tell me apart from anyone else off the street. No one notices…no one knows…"

"God dammit! Show yourself!" Garret shouted, firing a bullet in stress.

"Very well…I am, and I have. You are looking at me and don't even know it." The voice muttered again, Garret eyeing the crowd closely. Anyone that made any suspicious movements would die before getting far.

"Behind you." The Assassin muttered, Garret spun to fire another shot, which narrowly missed someone else at the far side of the street.

"You bastar—" Garret started to say, spinning. The Assassin was already there, smiling.

"See, the Assassins have the advantage in this war." He said, drawing his Hidden Blade. Garret placed the gun to the hooded man's head, but was knocked aside easily. "We are the people you seek to control, we are the common man. As such, we can hide in places you'd never dream." Garret backed up, attempting to run, but was too late. A sharp pain flew through him as the Assassin's blade pierced his heart.

His heartbeat increased dramatically, or at least it must've. Garret heard it, felt it. It was too much. His vision started fading, and the crowd started to react to the scuffle more violently. "Murderer!" "He killed the madman!" "What the hell is going on! A killer on the loose?" "Damn no! Close your eyes, sweetie!"

The coldness of Death spread through Garret. The Assassin stood before him, smiling. "What is it you Templars seek?"

"Peace...through better means…" Garret wheezed, as the Assassin laid him down to the ground.

"Better means?" the Assassin asked, staring through his hood.

"Better than murder…" Garret coughed.

"Genocide is no better than murder." The Assassin said. "Rest in peace." The Assassin placed Garret's head down, and stood to full height. His trigger didn't help him this time. This Assassin…was better at his job than the other one.

His vision blurring slowly, all the movement too much for Garret to register. The Assassin ran, and people approached. The couple, looked at him, and the man gave instructions to the woman, to cover up the wound so he could perform CPR.

The paramedics arrived, and people were giving mixed reports of what happened. All the while, Garret crept slowly but surely to his demise. "Don't give out!" screamed the paramedic, applying an Automatic Electrical Defibrillator. The shock went through Garret, painfully, and his world turned black ever so slowly. Visions of the Assassin ran through his head…all that was left to keep Abstergo and the Geroni family was Jonah. That was probably the Assassin's next target…

His world turned black, and he gave in to death. His time was up; he decided to rest peacefully, as the Assassin had given him the chance to do.


	4. Day One, Death Two

Derek had changed into his disguise, an oddly dressed man with sunglasses and a white T, with a grey sweater-belt, of course. He started running, screaming about the murder that had just taken place, until he reached Anna's car.

"Dear God, Anna! Someone's been murdered!" Derek said, exasperation acted out well. Anna followed along.

"Let's get the hell out of here, before anyone else gets killed!" she said, opening the door for him. He got inside, and they drove off. Taking a deep breath, Derek returned to his normal state of being emotionless. He took the other document out of the manila envelope. Jonah Harrison, with, a balding man, eye color unknown, area living around was Queens.

"Long way from home, isn't he?" Derek muttered, looking at his photo of the man from yesterday. There was a last reported sighting section in the briefing as well, of course, being Times Square. Maybe he would be in a nearby hotel, so he could stay within close and quick reach of orders.

"Where should we start?" Anna asked, trying to keep a conversation alive.

"Times Square. Where else?" Derek replied, as they turned to a new street. His arm hung out the window, his other arm holding the information on the next target. "…Jonah Harrison…" he muttered. He screwed up with Garret and forgot to question about Frederick, and about their connection with the Mafia. He needed that information, but no one could know he had it. His assassinations were his only source of the information he wanted.

"What's wrong, Derek?" Anna asked, sensing him in deep thought. He just continued staring at the picture of Jonah. Sighing, she returned her gaze to the road, avoiding traffic. They had finally arrived in Times Square, though most of it was sealed off due to Derek's actions yesterday.

"I'll drop off news of your first success back at headquarters," Anna mentioned, as he left the vehicles. "Good luck!" she drove off. Derek walked towards the crime scene, seeing three police officers and a Private Eye looking over the chalk outline of where Neil D'Ali left this world. Tapping the shoulder of the police officer, he jumped, but looked at Derek, who was garbed in his disguise, and sighed.

"Civilians are not to be near." The officer stated.

"A crime scene, right?" Derek asked, looking at the officer with innocent eyes. "I was just wondering if other than the murderer and the murdered…was anyone else present?"

The officer looked concerned for a moment, then asked, "How do you know?"

"Please…" Derek said, sighing, "half of New York knows, let alone a Private Eye such as myself." A dangerous card to play: there was already another Private Eye on the scene, but Derek was keen enough in eye to see things ordinary detectives would miss. As an Assassin, he knew how to take many roles.

"We already have a detective on the case…" the officer started, looking at Derek.

"That's why I'm freelance. I'm just as curious—and qualified—as he is." Derek replied, pointing to the Private Eye currently hunched over the chalk drawing. "Now, let me in. Please."

"A freelance detective, eh?" the man hunched over the drawing said, and chuckled. "Not many people work for free anymore, son. 'specially not in this economy."

"I have no worries for money." Derek replied. "And I can already state three things about this murder:" he paused, breathing. He could say it was planned, and risk exposing the Assassin Order, or he could say it was random, and state three facts leading to that. The latter would be what everyone was thinking, and would cause the officers and detective to dismiss him at once. The former would expose the Order, and cause him to be executed by his brothers.

"The murder was planned." He stated, pushing past the guards.

"Anyone can say that…" The detective said, lighting a cigarette. "Humor me with proof."

"Sure thing. First off, the weapon that killed him?" Derek asked, though he already knew it was a molded steel knife, hidden within the bracelet he wore now.

"We are unsure; we believe the murderer produced a small pocketknife and stabbed him to death."

"How many wounds?"

"One."

"Exactly." The officers looked puzzled, but the detective smiled. "One wound, meaning that the death was pre-planned."

"It could have been a random lucky shot." The detective pointed out.

"Yes, but how clean was the wound?" Derek questioned, careful not to blow his cover. The body was not present, so he couldn't know too much about it…unless…

"One clean blow to the neck, he bled out." Replied the detective.

"Precisely. In the jugular, if I am not mistaken. A blow that clean would give the victim a few, agonizing, last minutes to admit a truth of some sort."

"How did you know?" asked the detective.

"I have a photo of the body." Derek responded. "I needed to get my mind straight before I started this investigation, however, and didn't take it up until today."

"May I see this photo?" the detective asked, skeptical.

"I do not have it on me, however, I already know what is on the photo. Taking the time to retrieve it would be detrimental to the investigation." He reasoned, and the detective sighed. "I am looking for two possible suspects involved: Mr. D'Ali's supposed 'bodyguards'. Jonah Harrison and Garret Jerome."

"Well, Jonah Harrison we managed to track down to the 'Sleeping Heights' Hotel…" the detective said, still skeptical. "…he said he wanted as far away from this investigation as possible. I think he'd press charges for an interview."

"Thank you." Derek said, and walked off. The detective looked at the two police officers, and sighed.

"Our latest suspect: that man." He said, smiling. "He's hiding a part of the truth: I can smell it on his breath." Dropping the cigarette, he stepped on it, and snuffed it out. "We'll solve this case, or my name isn't Lawrence Leonards."

Derek took a cab to the "Sleeping Heights" Hotel, now standing before the large structure. Smirking, he opened the door, walking into the lobby, and he scrutinized everyone in the room quickly and quietly. As though an eagle searching for its prey. Walking toward the man behind the counter, he pulled out a wallet he had "confiscated" from the police officer, and leaned on the counter.

"I'm looking for a Mr…Jonah Harrison?" he asked, with a British accent, disguising his voice.

"Jonah…Harrison…sorry, we have no records of such a person being here." The clerk said, slowly, looking at Derek. "Who are you?"

"Keep it under the hood…" he replied, leaning towards the clerk as if to tell a secret, "…but I need to deliver something to Mr. Harrison. A _secret_ something."

The clerk looked interested, and leaned in as well. "How urgent is it needed?" Derek flashed a Templar badge he had relieved Garret of. "I see. Meet him this evening, around seven o' clock."

"Thank you. Where should I be headed?"

"The roof is where _that_ kind of business is done. I suggest you occupy yourself until seven."

"Alright." Derek finished, walking away from the clerk. He sat in a chair, looking around the lobby. Not the best he could have hoped for: in order to obtain the information he needed, he couldn't walk into a trap that could be. He needed to know Harrison's room number. An interrogation there, where he could receive no aid…he would yield the information he sought there.

Sitting in the room, Derek saw many visitors come and go as the pleased. Some conducting business, others made out with each other, and some even sat by Derek, as if looking for anything suspicious. The clock sped by, as Derek sat there, patiently. Some even started talking about him, just a statue, sitting there. The hour of seven came by, and the lobby had been nearly abandoned. As if it were expecting Harrison's death tonight.

Standing up, Derek made his way towards the stairs, walking up to the top floor. Opening the door, he saw Harrison, standing there, expecting someone. Derek walked out of the door, into Harrison's sight. "Who…are you?" he asked, reaching for his gun.

"Someone who needs some answers. But there are none tonight, I apologize for summoning you up here." He replied, trying to calm the Templar down.

"You sure? An Assassin killed my friend, you know. D'Ali? Those names familiar, Assassin?" he said, beginning to hyperventilate.

"This is getting you nowhere, sir." Derek said, raising his hands.

"It'll keep me alive."

"Trust me when I say I am not an Assassin."

"How can I trust you now? My pal, he had no fears…he was the greatest pal I could ever have…the bravest too." He replied, aiming his gun. "And yet…an Assassin killed 'em! They was the greatest men alive, and a rat killed 'em!" a shot fired, and Derek dodged.

"Sir, calm down. You are safe."

"Safe? _Safe?_ No one is safe…them Assassins…they come outta nowhere!" Harrison said, starting to hyperventilate, his breath heard probably by the people on the street below.

"Please, sir, don't shoot. Don't make enemies with everyone." Derek said, desperately trying to calm the man down. "The Assassins are enough to be against, but both Assassins _and_ Templars."

"Y-you're right…" he muttered.

"Here, I'll help you to your room. What is your number?" Derek asked, getting closer to Harrison.

"Th-thanks…" he muttered, Derek grabbing around his shoulder and offering support. One of his greatest gambles, paranoid people were the hardest people to kill. Especially when they were _this_ close to the mafia, where he could easily have Derek killed.

They made it to Harrison's room, 106, after going down a few flights of cheese grater stairs, and a few yarns passed on. He had learned much of his target; he had a family of three, his siblings were all killed by Assassins, and his wife was beaten to death in an Assassin-Templar conflict. This stirred slight sympathy within Derek, but he shoved off his feelings of sadness. If he felt any remorse for killing people who needed to die, he didn't belong in the Assassin's Brotherhood.

Harrison opened his door, and Derek immediately spotted a window at the far end of the room. "I'll see you soon, then." He said, smiling. "Get a good night's rest."

"Thanks…" Harrison muttered, closing the door. Sighing, Derek walked down the hall, looking at the open suites beside Harrison's. A plan formulated in his mind…he could get him alone in his room, quite easily. Not tonight; tomorrow. He grinned, walking down the hall.

Dawn had broken, as a young man with blonde hair walked into the lobby of the hotel. He wore sunglasses, and was armed to the teeth for whatever reason. His hair was greased back, he wore a leather vest, white shirt, leather pants. It looked as though he was trying to bring back the 1950's.

"Hello sir," said the clerk, sitting at his desk, "how can we help you?"

"I'm gonna need a room." Said the man, with a deep accent. "I'll take 107."

"Pardon me, sir, but the whole floor is booked for the night…" the clerk apologized, standing up. The man grabbed his pistol, and held it up to the man's neck.

"Listen, bub. We ain't got time for talkin'." The man said, looking around the lobby. "I need the room 107. 'tis my lucky number, see…my horoscope said so." Pressing the gun harder into the clerk's neck, he said in a vicious voice: "You _don't_disobey the horoscope…I'll die otherwise…"

"Sir…put the gun down…" the clerk said, nervously shaking. "You're gonna hurt someone…"

"Yea, you. If I don't get 107!" the man shouted, the whole lobby frozen with panic. Panic…or was it? No one moved, but fear only overtook the clerk's face.

"B-but…I was t-told…"

"Told shmold! Lemme in!"

"Y-y-yessir…" the clerk said, the man released his grip, and nodded. Two men walked up behind him, one grabbed him by the neck, and the other snatched his gun. They dragged him upstairs, despite all struggling. The clerk sighed. Another madman…he soon would be out of his misery.

A scream was heard, then a gunshot. Life began to move again. The man was dead. There was nothing to fear.

Derek walked into the hotel, seeing everything that had just transpired. This wasn't merely a hotel; it was infested with Templars. More than he was comfortable with. The man was dead, but his sacrifice would not be in vain. Had he assumed the only Templar in the vicinity was Harrison, he would have been caught dreadfully off-guard. He would be dead.

The people moved as normal, Derek leaned on the counter. "Oh, hello sir." Said the clerk. "You didn't show up last night? I thought it was urgent."

"Something else came up." He replied coolly.

"I see. Same time tonight?" he asked, under his breath.

"No, I need a room tonight. I would like to meet with the…" Derek started, looking around, and closed in on the counter, "…the Geroni family."

"Oh…oh, oh…" the clerk said. "Only Mr. Harrison meets with them. Usually around now on the first floor. Seeing as you are a part of his brethren, I'll let you in on a secret…" he whispered into Derek's ear, "…the Geroni family has a secret escape hatch through Mr. Harrison's room. They use it to come and go. Where it leads, I have no clue…"

"Thanks." Derek said. "I'll be asking for a room now."

"Room 208 has an opening."

"I was actually hoping for a room in the 100's."

"Well, because of the family…fine. Hide out in 107, don't let them see you." The clerk handed the keys that the man desired so badly to Derek, so easily. He walked up to room 107, opening the door silently. A window outside lead to a balcony, where Harrison was supposedly meeting with the family now.

Derek sat down. His hood worked better for him today, wearing it the whole time. The clerk considered him a Templar due to the secrecy he showed. Perfect, and amusing, Derek thought. He was in the most dangerous situation he had been in for a long time. A Templar nest. At least he had a way out.

The day passed relatively quickly. Harrison had been negotiating with the mafia men for three-odd hours, and Derek wrote down a quick note whenever he heard a name. Shaun could easily find the people, and that would be very useful to the hunt. It wasn't until he heard the names of Neil D'Ali and Garret Jerome.

"…Jerome was killed yesterday by the same Assassin as D'Ali." The mafia man stated, stone cold expression in his voice. "You'd best appoint more men to the contact with us, and quickly. If this continues, you're next. And tonight."

"How did that bastard get Jerome?" Harrison asked, flustered.

"Same way _all_ Assassins take their marks. From the crowd." The mafia man said, "The very same way the Geroni family tries it."

"But…if what you say is true…"

"Trust no one. Not even that crony from last night." The man said, standing up from a chair. "I must go now. Take care, and get more men for the contact…otherwise we are cutting from our end. Incompetence isn't something we'll cooperate with."

"R-right…" Harrison replied, defeated. "I-I'll see you tomorrow then…"

Derek heard doors opening, closing, and rapidly, Harrison had made himself the only one in the room. Slipping out of the window, Derek made his way into Harrison's apartment, and sneaked across the fancily decorated room of 106. Leaping over the kitchen counter, he had cover. Two more hours, and Harrison would be asleep.

Harrison sighed. Sitting on the bed, he remembered his fallen comrades. That damn Assassin…he better not come for him. Clenching his fists, he imagined the Assassin's throat between his hands. That cocky, grey coat wearing, teenaged bastard…

Gritting his teeth, he laid down on the bed. Looking at the ceiling, he raised his fist. The Assassin would pay…and he would be the collector. He heard a sound in the kitchen, and stood up. He needn't worry about the Assassin. If he attacked, he would die. Harrison pulled out his pistol, engraved upon it the symbol of Abstergo. Fully loaded.

Derek looked around the counter. The expression on his face was not fear, as expected, but rather, anger. He ducked around the edge of the counter, remaining out of sight. This would not go as expected. Harrison wanted blood. This would not be as quiet as Derek wished.

Quickly and quietly, he slipped behind his target. Hidden Blade drawn, he knew he needed answers. He grabbed Harrison with a jerking motion, and placed him in a headlock with his right hand, keeping the target's gun against his chest with his other hand. Two shots were inadvertently, and inevitably, fired. "What do you want, Assassin?" Harrison shouted.

This had to end quickly. Reinforcements would be here soon. "What do you know of Frederick Dawson?" he asked, and the man stopped struggling.

"Frederick Dawson?" he asked, fear in his voice. "…the Assassin…Frederick Dawson…I shall say no more."

"Tell me!" Derek shouted, pulling his arm into an uncomfortable position. "I'll break your shoulder if you refuse!"

"And you'll kill me if I do!" he pulled harder. A small click could be heard as the arm left its socket. He screamed in pain, footsteps could be heard down the hall. "Fine! Fine! Just leave me alone!"

"No time, now!" he shouted, drawing the Hidden Blade.

"He had many connections with Geroni! Don't kill—" the blade went through his heart, killing him instantly. He turned for the window when the door opened.

"Assassin!" called a Templar, and they started firing at him. Bullets whizzed past his ear, as he sprinted towards the window. His foot on the sill, one grazed his shoulder, sending him downward, into an alleyway below. The harsh wind blew his hood off as he hit the ground.

Landing on his shoulder, he was thankful the fall was from the second story. The fall was still hard. He pulled his hood back on, and looked up. No Templars yet. He turned and ran down the alleyway, pulling out his cell.

"Anna, emergency exit!" Derek said, before crashing into the detective from earlier. Landing on his side, he looked at the man, whose hair was a messy jumble of brown. His eyes showed little to no emotion, but rather, a harsh scrutinizing stare. Derek pulled his hood down farther, and stood up, turning to continue running. Spinning on his heels, he grabbed his cell which he had dropped. The detective merely sat there, and observed.

Derek ran, and rounded a corner, exiting Lawrence's sight. He sighed, before adjusting his watch to a more comfortable position. That man…he saw blue eyes, like that man from earlier. He also heard many gunshots within the hotel. Turning around, he entered the building, finding it in a state of disarray.

He walked up to the counter, finding the clerk gone. Two men came down from upstairs, and looked at Lawrence.

"Sir, we are currently in lockdown. Please leave." One said, pulling out a pistol. Something else was going on here. Something big.

"Right. I apologize for being an inconvenience," Lawrence responded, turning around to leave. That man…he had something to do with this…a murder? Perhaps. It wouldn't be the first in a series of three days. His aides drove up in a large black SUV, with dark tinted windows, and opened the door.

"Mr. Leonards, are you all right?" he asked, offering Lawrence a hand in.

"Yes. It seems there is more to these murders than meets the eye." Lawrence replied, grabbing the hand and letting his aide, a hulking muscle man who was more like a bodyguard, heave him inside the vehicle. "I shall have to do some research."


	5. Dawson's End Short

Sorry for not updating for a while, got caught up with things. Here is a short on how Derek's father, Frederick, was killed. Please leave feedback, and enjoy!  
-

His hidden blade pierced his target, the blood spilled out to the ground. Frederick retracted the blade, using the metal plating on the hidden blade's bracer to deflect an incoming bullet. He flew at his enemy, socking him in the gut, and grabbing the gun out of his hands. Shooting the man's neck, Frederick fired at the three new thugs that had appeared on the field. One was hit in the face, another in the heart, and the third was pierced in the lung with the speeding bullet.

Blood pooled around his enemies, and the other Assassins picked up the chance to continue the assault. Two entered a building to Frederick's left, and two more took up further cover from the end of an alley. Frederick merely continued walking forward, dropping his pistol, and looking out for any new enemies that appeared.

An armored truck drove at top speed towards Frederick, who scoffed at the effort. He ran at the vehicle, and tilted left. He caught the rearview mirror, which broke, albeit slowing his fall enough to get a firmer hold onto a ridge of the vehicle. He clambered to the top of the vehicle, and looked as it drove him from his target. His orders to rescue Desmond Miles needed to be fulfilled. Walking to the back of the vehicle, he grabbed hold of a handle as he descended to the back door. The Templars in the vehicle were prepared for death, that was for sure.

The vehicle skidded to a halt as it spun around, possibly to return to where they believed the Assassin to be. He carefully drew his hidden blade, and picked at the lock with it. The door flew open after a few seconds, and a Templar fell out onto the road due to shock and release of cabin pressure within the vehicle. The Assassin lay in wait behind the door for the next fool to try and investigate what had happened. One did, and felt the consequences.

The hidden blade pierced his temple beautifully, and the Templar fell out of the armored vehicle, still speeding at at least sixty miles an hour, instantly dead. Blood covered the hidden blade, but its job wasn't done. Its cleaning could wait. A shot was fired, the fool cursing, fear gripping the poor man. Now was the chance to attack the front, since they now guarded the back. Edge-sliding along the side, Frederick took deep breaths. The battle hadn't even begun yet, he couldn't be wearing himself anytime soon.

Opening the door of the passenger side, he grabbed the throat of the timid Templar, tossing him out of the vehicle, as he landed and skidded to his death along the road. The driver was probably readying a pistol or some other means of small arms, most likely. Now was the chance to take the vehicle for the Assassin's cause. He crawled into the front seat, and stabbed the driver through the face just before he fired the pistol, easily evaded by Frederick. Opening the driver door, he kicked the corpse out of the seat, and opened the window to the back, sniping the last Templar in the vehicle with the pistol he stole from the driver.

Leaning to close the passenger door, Frederick makeshift drove the armored vehicle with his foot. He made his way around to the driver's door, closing it as well. He then slowed the vehicle to thirty miles an hour, and returned to the battlefront. He stormed the firefight, crushing foolish Templars who couldn't dodge in time. The sound of bullets ricocheting off the vehicle filled his ears as the Assassins filled the vehicle and armed themselves with the submachine guns that the Templars kept as an in-field arsenal. One Assassin climbed into the passenger seat, and looked relieved.

"I wish you were still an official Assassin, Frederick." he said, and looked forward. "I'm sorry." He drew his hidden blade, and attacked Frederick, who barely reacted. The blade pierced him, drawing blood. Frederick already knew why he was being executed, but he expected them to be smart enough to carry out orders after the battle was over. He stabbed the Assassin through the temple with his hidden blade, killing him instantly. He kicked open the door of the armored car, and made a break for it, dislodging the blade from his bleeding abdomen. He limped away from the car, and began to sprint. The sounds of bullets sounded once more, as Frederick fell to the ground after being peppered with bullets from both sides.


	6. Taking Position:A Trip Inside the Animus

I'll admit I made the transition chunky between this chapter and the last one, but it was done for no discernible reason. In other words, just imagine a wordless ride home for Derek.

* * *

Derek stood above the Animus, gazing at it. His last trip had been a remarkable one, but a terrifying one. The idea of not only witnessing, but experiencing, his ancestor's plight. His father's battle. He sat down, and Rebecca looked at him, taking down a few notes.

"You sure you're ready for this?" she asked, and Derek nodded. She injected the needle into Derek, and his vision went fuzzy. His world disappeared, as he fell asleep. He heard voices, cries of battle, as he awoke in a firefight. He had been hunched over, taking cover behind a police car, as bullets flew through the windows and clanged on the doors. He had a pistol in his hands, but he didn't know how much ammunition he had. Two other people, each wearing white hoods, looked at him, similarly armed.

"This is a one-time thing, Frederick." Said one, loading a new clip into his gun. The other merely grunted, and waited for the gunfire to cease as the enemy reloaded. Derek looked at the gun, and realized his chance. He would gain ground during the ceasefire, and close the gap. The only problem was that he had no clue how long the gap between them was.

He leapt over the car and made a dash for the next area of cover. The enemies finished reloading, and they began firing at Derek. He dodged a few bullets, but got clipped in the leg. Falling to the ground, he rolled back his stance, and continued moving. Something was wrong here; something felt wrong. They kept firing, missing most of their shots. The little distraction kept up, until Derek got shot in the leg straight-on. He fell immediately, and landed hard on the ground, his leg bleeding.

The data of the world was starting to shatter: he was de-synchronizing. This never happened to his ancestor, by now that was certain. Thugs all closed in on him, and one placed a pistol to his head. Every breath he took shattered the world, the data fragmented like crazy. Even the people were beginning to lose realism. Putting a gun to his face, the thug fired, completely annihilating the whole world around them. Derek stood, in the form of a body-armored Frederick Dawson, looking around. The world rematerialized to just before he had leaped over the car, and he looked at the Assassins before him.

That was crazy. He looked around in awe, his fellow Assassins not noticing the surprised expression on his face. "Did I…die?" he asked under his breath, and looked at his hands. Whatever happened, his father must not have died yet. He took his pistol, and looked through the window to see any opposition. He gazed, looking at the place he died…nothing was there. Maybe he desynchronized because Frederick hadn't died then?

He looked up, and saw a sniper. So…_that_ was who shot him. He began to run towards the alley. He would attack the sniper from his blind spot, and pick off all resistance with what should have been their protection. Rounding the corner, he charged at the wall. Leaping upwards, he slammed his knee into the wall, and used it to push him to his left foot, which in turn pushed him farther up from his knee to his right foot. He propelled himself upwards a little more along the wall, grabbing hold of the window, and pulling upward. He quickly ascended the wall, making it to the rooftop.

He hid behind a door that led from the floor below. If he killed the sniper where he stood, he could easily be picked off by the other snipers…but it was a risk he needed to take eventually. He knocked on the door, making noise in some way to attract the sniper, who fell for the trap.

As he gazed around the corner, the blade went straight through his face. Derek caught the dead man's fall, and laid him down on the rooftop. He searched the sniper, grabbing another pistol and his sniper rifle. Cracking his knuckles, he fastened the sniper rifle to a baldric taken from the corpse, and reloaded his first pistol with extra ammunition the sniper was carrying. He looked over the edge of the building, both pistols at the ready. The Assassins caught onto what Frederick was doing, and continued their assault on the Templar barricade.

Derek saw some reinforcements of the enemies flanking the Assassins. He holstered both pistols and grabbed his sniper rifle, and readied to fire at them. They were leaderless, making this slightly harder; but if he could snipe the right person, it would scare the whole group, and the terror it struck would cause the advance party to fall, making the others easy to pick off.

He pointed the scope at one, examining the tough look on his face. He was ready for war, and he wanted it badly. Everything about his composure let that fact off easily. The man next to him was novice by comparison—however still seemed competent in battle. The others weren't worth looking at: these two acted like they were bonded. Killing one would result in psychological trauma for the other.

He took aim at the novice one. His death would anger the elder one, possibly beyond focus, where he would rebel against the advance squad. He would slow them down to the point they would either be completely useless to the actual fight, or until he himself was killed. Derek aimed, zooming in to between the eyes of the novice one, and slowly applied pressure to the trigger. This was chess: anything he did put his life on the line, and he very well knew it. He pushed down, keeping his aim steady, and eventually the trigger was pulled hard enough to fire a round.

It connected perfectly. The bullet struck the man down immediately, and the elder man drew his gun and immediately scanned the area: his eyes showed definite bloodlust, exactly the type of anger he had predicted. Derek, as swiftly as if he was in his own body, ducked back down under cover the roof walls. He placed the rifle down by him, and took a breath. Life would play out from here as it would: there was no more he could do. Except…

There was a sound coming from the sniper's comm. unit. Derek grabbed it, noticing the subtle differences between Frederick's hand and his own, and listened in on the conversation.

"…he's dead! You bastards promised he would live through this!"

"Commander, calm down!"

"You idiots let my son get sniped…and looking at the bullet, one of you bastards actually did the dirty job of killing my son!"

"Sir, the Assassins—"  
"Screw the Assassins, this is a matter of rebellion within our own lines. I want whoever did it dead, ASAP."

That did it. The advance squad fell back better than Derek planned, in fact it had been a perfectly drawn-out plan. Now the Assassins only had to worry about the frontal assault, all because of one bullet. So this was the kind of thing his father did…the kind of thing Assassins on the front line were called to do. It was interesting, indeed: a lot of care needed to be taken to kill the right person, just like with Derek's own professional Assassinations.

He expected the memory to be over, but it wasn't. Whatever happened, the memory was only half over. Something else was going to happen, he could feel it in his bones. Rebecca hadn't commented on anything yet: he wondered what had happened to her…

Letting the memory run its course, Derek merely observed as Frederick crouch-ran towards the next building, gaining full height before leaping over the gap. He landed into a roll and kept going. Something was up with him: he saw something about to go wrong. He heard a shot, and Frederick ran towards the side of the building. A female lay on the ground, dying, garbed as a Templar. Other Templars were beating her senseless, behind their own lines.

Frederick drew a pistol out of its holster, and fired a shot at one that was beating down on her ferociously. He then fired at two people who moved to retaliate against the unknown menace. The whole group was distracted, and the woman began limping away. A nearby sniper he had noticed at that moment took aim, and fired before he could react. "No!" he cried, running at top speeds towards the sniper, leaping the gap between the buildings and slamming the hidden blade through his heart. He could still breath, Frederick grabbed his pistol, and shoved it into the man's face.

"You're gonna pay for that…" he muttered, readying to push the trigger. "Any last words for family and friends, or will you just die like the bastard you are?"

"Why…do you care…about a Templar…Assassin?"

"Because I'm not an Assassin. I've seen beyond those who have 'seen beyond' the truth. I walk my own path, and soon you will no longer walk."

"Why…help then…?" he asked, barely breathing.

"Because I chose my own side, the side of truth, rather than the side of teams." Frederick finished, pulling the trigger. The bullet flew through the man's skull, and he dropped. As he hit the ground, the memory started to dissipate. Derek looked around, wondering: who was that woman? Why did Frederick care so much for Templars? And why would he have betrayed the Brotherhood? So many questions had been left unanswered.


	7. Alone

Another miniscule update describing the Detective's transition...oh yes, I have BIG plans for him...

I will update these every Wednesday I can, and if you ARE, in fact, reading, and need something else to read while awaiting the next update, I have another Fanfiction involving Assassin's Creed that you might like, updated every Sunday. Thanks for reading, and leave feedback so I can improve, please!

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Leonards looked around at his run down little office. As brilliant as he was, he disliked taking on huge cases: if it took too much time, he gave up, and didn't get paid. He didn't like the grandeur of a huge office either way; he worked better in cluttered spaces. This time seemed different: the NYPD themselves called him into it based on his successes.

One of his men walked into the room with a handful of documents. Leonards took the manila envelopes, and opened one, laying its contents out across the already-cluttered desk. The first interesting thing he saw was the victim's license: Neil D'Ali. What was interesting about it was that he was tied in with Abstergo, a company of which seemed involved with two other murders associated with D'Ali. Did the murderer have something against the company itself, or was it just these workers?

Another thing popped into his mind: why these three? It made no sense, in the essence of it. They weren't important at all to the company, looking over D'Ali's profile, he was nothing more than a deliveryman, obsolete by default, between Abstergo and another obscure company. Obsolete, unless what was happening was illegal, then of course they would not want to run the risk of the government finding out.

Then was the murderer, in fact, some sort of vigilante? Or was Abstergo just an affected company? There were very few ways to find out, but one of them was pretty obvious. He snapped his fingers for the envelope of Abstergo, where D'Ali worked. He looked over the casualties column, where his men had recorded all of Abstergo's doings over the past few weeks.

Three men were killed recently: D'Ali, and his two accomplices. They were assumedly killed by the same person, a mysterious murderer he nicknamed "Killer X". In the past month, four people were murdered, but, not by the same person. One person, a higher up, was murdered by three people at least. Another thing, Abstergo had this death covered up, as if it didn't want anyone to know that he was killed. Even the family hasn't been contacted about this: his men were quite surprised and had to relay the sad news.

Leonards looked over the records of Abstergo's employment: various, high profile people, all rich, worked in the upper levels of Abstergo's main building. Nothing weird or wrong about that, but looking over the various documents of the employees in the higher ups, he noticed that the records of what they did from day to day were absent. Nothing at all, and a company like Abstergo would never have been able to afford idle time from such strong members of the company.

Sighing, he put the document down, when he realized his assistants were gone. He stood up, and looked around, grabbing a knife from under the various papers, he packed untidily what he would need after his escape. His attendants were to not leave, and under those orders they wouldn't have unless they were killed, or removed from the picture. That was the precaution he took when he hired the attendants.

He threw the brown burlap sack around his shoulder, and opened the window, and prepared to leap out, when he heard a fire ignite. He turned around to see people looking awfully similar to D'Ali. They wore the same uniforms as he did, at least. Abstergo definitely had something to do with this…

He continued out of the window, leaping out of the apartment, and landing in a roll, and returning to his feet. He continued running, taking only fleeting glances back at his small office, burning with all of the documents he had recently been researching within. A truck caught up with him quickly enough, however.

Three burly men stepped out, armed with knives as well. Leonards kept his knife out, and readied for combat. One laughed, and smirked. They were cocky, they would take him on one at a time. This would be easy: Leonards had no qualms with killing someone in his own self defense.

The man punched with the knife clenched in his hand. The detective ducked under the attack, and elbowed the man in the gut. With his left hand, he punched upward, uppercutting the man, leaving his neck wide open for a kill shot. Morality struck at him more than he thought it would, but he pulled the knife across the air, striking at his foe's throat.

Blood squirted out as the man fell to the ground, clutching his throat as he died slowly. The other two drew their weapons, and headed over to Leonards' position. He ducked under one's horizontal slash, and caught another's downward thrust, pushing him to the side. He sidestepped another attack from the first one, and backpedalled out of their range.

Leonards wasn't new to combat. As a child, his parents paid for fighting lessons, and taught him all they knew. After their premature deaths, he inherited their fortune and used it to enhance his education in investigation. He knew to fight, but hoped never to need to fight. He had common sense, however, and knew what to do to take out two opponents rather easily.

He ducked under one attack, jamming the knife into the man's heart, and winced as the man grunted, dying. Tearing the knife out of his chest, he grabbed the carcass and shoved it in front of an incoming attack from another enemy, knocking him off-guard long enough to feel the blade pierce his forehead. Leonards looted the bodies, stealing their weaponry. Three knives, and a pistol.

He ran into van, closing the door behind him. No driver, he was probably dead. Leonards took the seat of the driver, and started the vehicle. This was the first time he had needed to fend for his own life, in a life or death situation. The vehicle took off, and he drove onto the main street. Traffic had begun to pick up, and his trackers were right behind him, readying their firearms to turn him into swiss cheese.

He opened the door, and leaped out onto the top of the car. He hopped across the cars, his goal was to separate himself from the people pursuing him as quickly as he possibly could. He eventually landed on the sidewalk, and rolled back to his feet, and continued running. The people looked at him oddly: he was certainly making a spectacle of himself. Two people, he noticed, turned and began following him. More pursuers? He couldn't run the risk of that, and instead ran forward. Where else could he go just then?

The subway. It was the quickest form of transport he could think of, and as he ran down the stairs, all other opportunities disappeared. He looked around, as he slowed down to try and blend with the crowd slightly. Maybe he could get out of this mess he got himself into by escaping in a crowd, as that murderer did…

He walked up to the ticket master, and ordered a ticket to out of town. The train would be leaving in a few minutes, hopefully they wouldn't find him before then. The chances of that were very, very low. They were just in hot pursuit, unless they are still stuck in traffic. He sat down on a bench, and took a breath. People were all moving on like nothing was going on: perfect for them. He wished someone knew, that there was someone to help. He never liked being alone: his parents, his attendants…all dead. He had no other friends, no one else to help. He no longer had a family.


End file.
